


The Camera Never Lies

by Philomytha



Category: Rivers of London - Ben Aaronovitch
Genre: Fics I'd Never Write, M/M, Pictures, Post-Broken Homes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-10
Updated: 2014-08-10
Packaged: 2018-02-11 23:15:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,892
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2086818
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Philomytha/pseuds/Philomytha
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>How did Nightingale get photographed lying posed on a map of Soho in a tight black t-shirt, beaming up at the camera?</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Camera Never Lies

**Author's Note:**

> With thanks to nnozomi, who asked me to explain how Nightingale got into a particular situation for the Fics I Wouldn't Write meme. Here's the picture in question:
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> [](http://s1080.photobucket.com/user/philomytha/media/mcgann3.jpg.html)  
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>  
> 
> ... okay, now that everyone's sat up and is paying attention, here's an explanation for how this came about. And if anyone else wants to play, we could make this into a fandom challenge: find a picture of Paul McGann in some likely or unlikely way, and explain how Nightingale got into that situation.

The first I knew of it was when my phone beeped at me. 

I was on the bus, sitting in the back seat where I could see everyone, on my way back from the dentist. Dr Walid had looked at my medical records and pointed out that I wasn't registered with a dentist and hadn't had a check-up for almost two years and he would just book me in with a practice near Ladbroke Grove, which was the only one he could find which had space. He'd been like this since Skygarden, mother-henning me and sometimes Nightingale too, and it was starting to get on my nerves. But I went to the dentist like a good boy, sat around in the waiting room, got lectured on regular toothbrushing and not too much Coke, emerged undrilled forty minutes later, and caught the number 7 bus back to Russell Square.

That was when my phone beeped that I had a new text. I pulled it out and looked. It was from Nightingale, which was a surprise. He does send text messages on occasion, but mostly in reply to ones you send him, and a lot of the time you still have to prod him and remind him of how it works. And it was just an image, no text, which was even more of a surprise, because I've never known him to take pictures with his phone before. He's just about grasped that it's used for calls and text messaging; the other functions are pretty much a mystery to him, and my attempt to explain apps ended after fifteen minutes with both of us very frustrated. I looked at the picture, hoping it wasn't going to be some gruesome crime scene he wanted me to attend. 

A moment later, I really wished it had been a crime scene. It was a picture of his face. My Nokia's a bit scratched and battered, and the resolution's not great, but the basics were clear: Nightingale, lying on his back, smiling up at the camera like he didn't have a care in the world. I squinted at the screen in case I'd made a mistake, but no, it was definitely him. 

The phone's screen shut down, and I swiped at it to wake it up. Nightingale's blissful face beamed up at me again, and I noticed that sometime between when I'd seen him this morning and now, he'd swapped his pale blue shirt, navy tie and dark grey suit for a tight-fitting black t-shirt. What the hell? 

This was weird. Wrong. Bad. Very bad. Very _very_ bad. 

My brain kept on like that until the phone powered down again, and once I didn't have the picture to gape at in puzzlement, I tried to think it through. This was not normal behaviour for Nightingale. Something was wrong. But what? I stared at the blonde highlights of the woman in front of me and made myself go through the possibilities logically. 

One: Nightingale voluntarily and in full control of his mind agreed to be photographed like that. This seemed pretty close to impossible, based on what I knew of him. And I thought I knew the man well after living practically in his pocket for a year and a half. But then, I'd thought I'd known Lesley too. Maybe this was just something he did. Maybe he moonlighted as a model. There was a lot I didn't know about him. But even if he had, I thought, that didn't go anywhere to explaining why he'd sent the picture to me. He does have a sense of humour, but when he trolls me it's mostly by making me spend hours in the library trying to find stuff, or with magic rainclouds. Sending me weird selfies was a bit of a stretch. Though it wasn't a selfie, not the way he was posed. The picture definitely implied that someone else was present. 

Two: he was out of his box. I'd never seen him do more than drink a few glasses of wine or beer, with no visible effect, and I was confident that he was no addict. I know the signs. But everyone cuts loose sometimes, and sending stupid pictures of yourself to your coworkers is pretty normal pissed behaviour. Against that, the picture didn't look like he was drunk or high. You get good at spotting them after a year or two patrolling the streets, and Nightingale looked too alert in that picture, too aware of what was going on. And it was professionally done, too. You don't get a photo like that snapping randomly while drunk. 

Three: he was under duress. He looked relaxed and happy in the picture, gazing at the camera like it was his favourite child or something, but that just meant it wasn't a normal means of forcing someone to do something. And these days I knew a lot of magical ways a person could be forced into things, their mind altered, their personality twisted. And if it was something strong enough to do that to Nightingale, and wanted me to know about it, we were in deep shit. 

Four: it wasn't Nightingale. I hadn't forgotten the time he'd raised the possibility of some magical creature killing him and wearing his body. Not to mention the ability to change your appearance magically. Or maybe he just had a twin he'd never mentioned. Though it would have to be a twin who aged backwards just like he did and had the same haircut. But if that was the case, the thing that wasn't Nightingale had his phone. Which took me back to the deep shit. 

I powered up the phone again, looked again at the picture, took a deep breath and did the sensible thing. I called Nightingale. If it was option one or option two, he could just tell me. If it was three or four, I'd pick up some clues. 

He didn't answer. 

"Fuck," I said, out loud, and a little old lady with a red and white shopping trolley bulging with Asda bags glared at me. 

Next thing to try was replying to the text. _What's going on?_ I wrote, and sent it to him. He gets snippy if you don't use proper words and punctuation in text messages. Then I stared out the window of the bus and willed my phone to light up again. 

When it did two minutes later, I jumped. _Do you like the picture?_

Now what? Someone was there, possibly Nightingale. Keep him talking, I decided. 

_who took it & where r u_ I replied, testing a bit. 

_I 'r' with a friend. Everything's fine._ That, I had to admit, sounded like Nightingale. Nobody else would bother to use quote marks into a text message. 

_Call me_ I typed, then added, _Please._ With all the punctuation. 

A minute later, my phone rang.

"Peter, what's the matter?" Nightingale said. He sounded fond and amused, his voice the auditory equivalent of the expression on his face in the photo. "Didn't you like the picture? I thought it was rather good."

"Um. Sir, where are you? What's going on? Who took that picture?" I hesitated. "Are you under duress, sir?"

"What? No, of course not." He laughed, long and warm. 

"Are you _high_?" I blurted out without meaning to. 

"Peter!" But his outrage wasn't entirely convincing. So, option two, I thought. That went some way to explaining this, but also threw me back the question of how he'd got that way. "I haven't taken anything, if that's what you're asking. It's just a spell. I did it myself. Or part of it. Josh did the rest." 

And now my questions were endless. I started with the first one. "Who's Josh?"

"A friend. I bumped into him this morning and we had lunch at his place. He's your friend Zach's grandfather, I believe. I've known him for years. Everything's fine, Peter. I don't know what you're worrying about."

I thought about the picture again, Nightingale lying down, the happy, relaxed look on his face. A 'friend'. Right. And I'd just interrupted them. But that still didn't explain why he'd sent me the picture, if he was just... having an afternooon off. 

"Do you trust him?"

"He's fae, Peter," Nightingale said with gentle amusement.

"So, he's about as trustworthy as a chocolate hammer," I said. 

"He knows who I am and won't cross me. Will you?" This, evidently, was directed towards the mysterious Josh. 

There was a laugh in the background. 

"So why the photos?"

"He's a photographer. Pretty good one, too."

"But why did you send it to me, sir?" I asked. I could have just carried on in blissful ignorance of your sex life, sir, I didn't say. 

"It's a good photo," Nightingale said. "Also, well, he has quite a collection of them now. I didn't want him getting ideas."

I thought that through for a moment. "Your, um, he's trying to blackmail you, sir?" My day was definitely getting worse. And my opinion of Nightingale's taste was going downhill, fast. 

"Not any more." Another laugh and some muffled words in the background. "It was in jest, Peter, mostly. But as you so aptly put it, trustworthy as a chocolate hammer. Though he is excellent company. Don't worry. I won that argument. But I thought I should cut off that line of possibilities, just in case."

"Right. Um. Okay, sir. I promise not to be shocked at whatever photos he has of you. You don't need to send me any more. Um. Do you need anything else?"

More muffled voices, and then Nightingale said, "Yes, yes, all right," presumably to Josh, and to me, "I drove here, but I probably shouldn't drive back. If you wouldn't mind--"

"Sure. No problem." Something straightforward I could do. Drive Nightingale home. 

"Thank you, Peter." He still sounded fond. Then he hung up, and I immediately realised I still didn't have an important piece of information. _Where are you?_ I texted. 

_Look at the picture_ , he replied. Now that was more typical Nightingale-style trolling. He really could be very annoying sometimes, and apparently this was worse when he was high on magic, or whatever it was. 

I looked yet again at the picture of Nightingale: magically stoned and being photographed by his fairy lover. Clues, I told myself. I tried to get a clear look at the background. Black lines, yellowish background. Some words, 'Old Com'. I squinted: it was a map, I thought, roughly drawn but recognisable. And I was pretty sure the only thing that Old Com could be was Old Compton Street in Soho. 

"Gotcha," I said, and instead of waiting until we got to Russell Square I hopped off on Oxford Street. The tourists and shoppers were thinning as the shops started to close for the day, and the after-work crowd were coming out to fill out the bars and clubs. I went down through Soho Square and Greek Street and came out on Old Compton Street. 

I spotted the Jag first. There's a Metropolitan Police flash on the windscreen, and while you're not really supposed to use it to ward off parking wardens, it's a nice side effect. When I got close I saw that Nightingale had parked in a legitimate space and bought a ticket from the machine, but it had expired four hours ago. Probably around the time he and his 'friend' cast spells on themselves, I figured. Now I just had to find him. 

I stood still and closed my eyes. A couple of loud young men in business suits pushed past me and I stepped aside. But while there was some background vestigia, there wasn't anything that made me think of Nightingale, or any of the fae. I walked along slowly, looking at the doors, and stopped. A small card by the entryphone of one building read _Joshua Marwood, photography_. 

I pressed the buzzer. Nobody spoke on the entryphone, but there was a faint click as the door unlocked, and I went in. Then I started to feel the vestigia. A holiday feeling, sleeping till noon, lying on the beach in the sun, lounging in a bar till late. I went slowly up the stairs, and the feeling got stronger, until I came to the second floor. I knocked, and stepped back sharply as I felt magic building up. Then I recognised Nightingale's _signare_ , and the door swung open. Show-off. 

Inside was a small empty office. There was a computer on the desk, powered down I hoped, and a lot of filing cabinets and big slotted shelves stacked with photos, and more on the wall. There was a door ajar to a room beyond. 

"Hello?" I called.

"In here," said an unfamiliar voice, and I went through to what turned out to be a surprisingly large photography studio. There were the usual arrays of lights, props stacked against the wall, a chaise longue draped in rumpled satin throws and scattered pillows that I blinked at several times, and on the floor was Nightingale. He didn't look like he'd moved much since I'd received the photo, still on his back looking relaxed and contented. Sitting leaning against a floor cushion at his feet was a white man. He looked an indeterminate middle age, anywhere from a worn thirty to a youthful fifty. But being fae, and Zach's grandfather, he was probably twice that, maybe even older than Nightingale. His hair was either cut very short or he was nearly bald, and he was wearing a long quilted paisley dressing-gown. And Nightingale was in jeans and a close-fitting black t-shirt, and he was barefoot. He looked years younger than he does in the suit--which I saw neatly folded on a heavy carved wooden chair near the chaise longue. Where it had been removed. This really was my day for TMI about Nightingale's sex life. 

"So you're Thomas's boy," he said. "Zach's told me about you." He scanned me, and I had a sense that he was fitting me up for a photo shoot in his head, deciding how to light my face and where to pose me. "Not bad."

I looked at Nightingale, then away. "Sir," I said. 

"Oh, for heaven's sake, you really need to call me Thomas when we're off-duty," said Nightingale. 

I wasn't at all sure I could do that. But I went over and squatted down beside him. "So what's this spell?" 

"I think it may have been a bit more powerful than I intended," said Josh, which I didn't believe for a second. "It's for happiness."

"Magic happiness," I said. "Sounds good. How does it work?" Anti-depressants on a magical scale? 

"It blocks sadness, unpleasant emotions," said Nightingale. "It was his idea, after we had lunch. He thought I needed it, and he was right. But you can't do it to yourself. So he did mine, and I did his."

Josh seemed cheerful, but not euphoric the way Nightingale was, I noted. But despite the blackmail and whatever, Nightingale must have trusted Josh a lot to let him put the spell on him first. 

"What's the catch?" I said. 

Josh shifted his weight a bit. "When it wears off," he said. 

"A hangover?"

"No. But the contrast can be a wee bit extreme, for some people." He rubbed Nightingale's bare foot idly with one hand. I blinked. "If you're taking him home, best you get there before it wears off." 

"It's funny," Nightingale said, "I know it's coming. I just don't care."

I grimaced. "Yeah. Okay. I'm ready when you are, then." I stood up and backed away to the door. Josh sighed. 

"All good things come to an end," he said. "I'll send you the photos." He stood up too, then pulled Nightingale to his feet and into an embrace. I turned around quickly, but there was a mirror in the props collection which meant I got a brief terrifying glimpse of Nightingale being thoroughly kissed. I went out into the office.

Two minutes later Nightingale came out, still in jeans and a t-shirt, but wearing shoes and with his suit folded over one arm. He passed it to me without apparently even noticing what he was doing, then sauntered down the stairs. 

On our way back to the car I saw at least three guys check Nightingale out. He noticed them too, and flushed a little. I had never imagined he could be shy, but evidently it was a thing, when he wasn't on-duty and professionally stern and in control. We got in to the Jag and I headed out into the central London traffic. 

"You should try something like this too, you know, Peter," he said to me suddenly. "I worry about you. You've gone through a lot." He reached over and patted my shoulder. It was lucky we were stationary at the time.

"I'm not sure this is the spell for me," I said.

"Oh, it couldn't be this spell," he said ingenuously. "It requires, er, intimacy, to make it work. But there are other similar, less powerful options."

"He did it to you while you were--" But it explained how Joshua Marwood had managed to put a spell on Nightingale, even a well-intentioned one. 

"Yes, I'll probably be angry about that, later. But he meant well, and it was a good idea. But you need to relax sometime too."

"But not while I'm driving," was all I said in answer, still trying to cope with the idea that there were spells that required you to have sex. 

"I suppose not. Though unreasonable optimism could be useful when you're driving around London." He laughed. Ahead of us, a traffic light changed to green, but we didn't get through before it turned red again, and a taxi honked its horn. I supposed he had a point there. 

"I wouldn't worry so much if you would go out drinking, or cut lessons to go to the pictures, or, or, find a girlfriend or something," he went on earnestly. "But all you do is work and study lately, and everyone breaks sooner or later like that."

It's not a good idea to argue with people who aren't in their right minds, so I just nodded, and this time we got through the lights. 

"I know you won't want to come to an old man with your troubles, but perhaps you should go visit Beverley? Or some other friends? Your family?" 

"Yeah, maybe," I said to make him stop. I didn't mention that one reason I didn't want to talk to him about it all was that I could see he had enough on his plate already. No need to make him worry about me as well. But apparently he was worrying anyway. 

"I miss your smile," was the next appalling thing he said. "Maybe this will help."

He sat up a bit, and I felt the forma taking shape in his head. "Sir!" I said. "We're in the car!"

"She's magic-proof," he said.

"Yeah, but the other cars on the road aren't, sir."

"It's not that strong. I do know what I'm doing, Peter."

"Unreasonable optimism," I muttered, and he laughed and did a spell. It was a tricky one, six formae and a bunch of adjectivi as well, and at first I had no idea what he'd done. We were stopped at the next set of traffic lights, so I looked at him and blinked.

It was an illusion, and if I squinted I could see Nightingale behind it. But the illusion's surface was... I spluttered. "Professor _Dumbledore_?" 

He laughed, and the illusion shifted three more times, through Hagrid and Ron and Harry himself, before fading away.

"But--but--since when do you know all about Harry Potter?" I demanded.

"I read them all when they were published," he said. "It's important to know how magic is perceived by the general public, and besides, they were entertaining. But you and Lesley were having so much fun telling me about them and pulling my leg, I didn't have the heart to tell you." 

"Evil and cunning," I muttered. But I had enjoyed the way he reacted to Harry Potter references all the time, when Lesley and me made them. And then I noticed that this was the first time he'd mentioned Lesley casually like that. I was pretty sure I hadn't mentioned her at all. Weirdly, it didn't hurt as much as I'd expected. Teasing Nightingale about Harry Potter with Lesley had been fun. 

We got through the lights and reached the amazing speed of eighteen miles per hour for a few moments before getting stuck again, but we were almost at the turn for the Folly's garage entrance. Mercifully, Nightingale didn't try anything else to cheer me up while I manouevred the Jag inside, just leaned back in the seat with a smile on his face. 

I parked next to the Asbo and we both got out, and just as I reached for the dust cover to drape over the Jag, I saw the spell wear off. It happened all at once, the stress and anxiety and bad memories all resurfacing from wherever the spell had hidden them, like a house falling on your head, or your best friend tazing you in the back. He didn't break down sobbing, or anything like that. He just... closed down, like a laptop when the battery runs out, the smile vanishing, the warmth in his eyes clouding over, the lines standing out on his face, the tension returning to his back and down his neck, the curt precision returning to his movements. 

I didn't ask if he was all right. Sometimes I can be tactful. Instead I finished getting the dust cover on while he stood with his back to me, and wondered whether I had looked like that to him. When I couldn't pretend to be sorting the car out any more, I said, "Sir?"

He turned, and I saw a flicker of embarrassment, and then that too was swallowed up by the stern professional. "I'm sorry to have troubled you this afternoon," he said. "Please destroy that picture."

I swallowed. "I'd rather not, sir," I said. 

"It wasn't real, Peter," he said. "It was a spell."

"Yeah, but the thing is, you were right. Sometimes you--you have to let the pressure off for a while." Lesley and I had been each other's pressure valves for a long time. Now she was gone, and Nightingale was right: I was on the edge. So was he. 

I guess my face must have given me away, because his eyes creased with some shadow of the earlier concern and fondness he'd shown. "Yes. It does help." He looked away, smoothing the edge of the dust cover, and I glanced from the Folly's kitchen door to the staircase up to the tech cave. 

"You may have read the books but I bet you haven't seen the films," I said. "Do you want to come up? I've got some more beer, too--" I took a breath, and added, "Thomas?"

He took that in and looked at me properly. "I think that would be an excellent idea." A smile crossed his face. It was scarcely a ghost of the smile I'd seen earlier, but it was real.


End file.
